


How I Wish It Would Rain (Down On Me)

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AO3 1 Million, Community: salt_burn_porn, Hot Weather, Knifeplay, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Rain Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-03
Updated: 2009-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the wet season, but it hasn't rained here in weeks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How I Wish It Would Rain (Down On Me)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for rhythmsextion's prompt _caught in the rain_. Unbeta'd, so please point out any mistakes. Remember to keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times!

They're in Louisiana, and it's hot. No; it's stifling, the air thick and soupy, heavy with the scents of summer. The windows are down and Sam's stripped to his t-shirt, breathing deep of the smells of jasmine, magnolia, and dark scorched earth. He breaks a new sweat every time he moves. It's the wet season, but it hasn't rained here in weeks.

Dean copes with the heat better than Sam. He shouldn't, with his freckles and fair skin--their mother's colouring--but he seems to expand in the heat, soaking it up like a cat. Sam looks at him in his peripheral vision, feeling a new flush of heat that has nothing to do with the weather.

Dean is down to his t-shirt as well, dark shades covering his eyes, one arm resting casually on the driver's side door. He looks hot--sweat is gleaming on his face and neck, darker than black patches showing under his arms and in the centre of his chest. Sam knows Dean is probably sticking to the seat, too; the Impala isn't a good car for summer. Sam is roasting in his jeans and boots, dying to stand under a cold shower for the next week, but Dean ... Dean looks like he could cruise along like this forever. There's a crooked smile on his face, and he's humming along to CCR on the radio, and Sam's in danger of overheating just looking at him.

Like he said: Dean looks _hot_.

Sam leans down to scrabble around in the footwell, coming up with a bottle of water. It's lukewarm now, and tastes faintly of metal, but it's wet going down and that's enough. Sam downs several swallows without pausing, and gasps for air when he's done.

"Easy, Sammy," Dean says with an amused smirk, glancing over at him. "It's water, not a yard glass."

"Fuck off," Sam returns breathlessly. He feels queasy. "'S too fucking hot."

Dean shakes his head, stretching his free arm out the window.

"How did you survive three years in California?"

"That was different. There was air conditioning, for one." Sam pulls at his t-shirt, grimacing. "And it wasn't like this. Cali's drier. This is like living in a sauna. How can people stand it?"

"It's what you get used to, I guess," Dean says, shrugging. "Normal is relative."

Sam grunts and peers out the windshield, watching the cloudbank building up on the horizon. It's been threatening to bucket down for the past five days, but so far nothing's come of it but sullen rumbling thunderstorms and some impressive lightning displays. And more heat, of course. Always with the fucking heat.

"Gimme some of that," Dean says, and Sam startles out of his thoughts.

Dean's hand is waving in his face, groping further down for the water bottle clamped between Sam's thighs. Sam fumbles for it and hands it over quickly, keeping Dean out of his space. He's already hot and tired and uncomfortable; he doesn't need to add 'hard' to the list. Not with half the day still to get through and not much hope of functional air-con at the end of it.

Dean pulls the cap out of the bottle with his teeth, a brief flash of glinting white and pink tongue that has Sam seeing stars. He jerks his gaze away, staring blankly at the blackening sky, listening to Dean sucking down mouthfuls of water with obscene enjoyment. Sam bites his cheek, hard, and concentrates on the pain.

"Thanks," Dean says, and tosses the empty bottle at Sam's head. It bounces off and lands in the back seat, lost among the miscellany that builds up back there from time to time.

"Ow," Sam says. It's more for form's sake than anything else.

"Poor baby." Dean's response is automatic. "Tell me about this house again."

"It's pretty straightforward," Sam says, grateful for the distraction. "Flickering lights, moving objects, noises in the walls, all the usual stuff. The only thing out of the ordinary is that apparently, sometimes there's blood running down the walls."

"Really?" Dean looks delighted. "That's kinda cool."

"You would think so," Sam says, rolling his eyes. "I'm pretty sure it's just a poltergeist, but it could be a vengeful spirit. A very melodramatic vengeful spirit."

"Takes one to know one, princess."

"Bite me."

Dean casts him a wicked glance, but Sam looks away, staring out the window again. He sees it in the window's reflection anyway, and it makes his gut tighten with want. _Not now,_ he tells himself. _Work now, fuck later. If it's not too hot._

He knows it won't matter how hot it is; later, when Dean touches him, Sam will do whatever his brother wants.

For now, though, it stays unspoken between them, until the job is done. Sam goes back to hating the close, heavy air and stealing glances at Dean, navigating them closer to their destination. Dean doesn't bother with subtlety; he looks over at Sam whenever he feels like it, it seems, a hot smile on his face, eyes still hidden behind dark frames but searing Sam's nerve endings regardless. Sam nearly bites his cheek raw in an effort to ignore the mood. He has to focus on the job, not the way Dean's thighs splay wide and loose, the way his fingers curl lazily around the steering wheel, guiding with a light touch. Sam ends up looking at the worn vinyl surface of the glove compartment, unable to deal with the heat flaring between them every time their gazes meet.

"We need a cover story to get anyone out of the house?" Dean asks after a while.

Sam shakes his head. "It's empty right now. The last family moved out three months ago. We can wait for dark, take our time."

"Sounds good," Dean murmurs in a velvet-soft voice that goes straight to Sam's cock. "So, motel, dinner, poltergeist?"

"It's a plan," Sam agrees.

He doesn't mention what comes after, and neither does Dean; it's sort of implied by now, but no less thrilling for that. Sam wonders if the thought of sex with Dean will ever seem ordinary or routine. He hopes not. The slightly terrified feeling of vertigo he gets when Dean so much as looks at him is one of the main reasons Sam gets up in the morning.

They make it to Lafayette in plenty of time to find a motel. The house they're cleansing is at the edge of town; not quite on the outskirts, but close. They check into a motel about ten minutes away--without air conditioning, of course--and dump their stuff, considering their options.

"Food first, or prep?" Dean asks.

"Food," Sam says. He's not all that hungry, but the thought of a cool drink and cold air is irresistible.

They follow Dean's nose to a diner within walking distance of the motel. Sam nearly moans at the cool wash of air flowing over him as they step inside; he unties his overshirt from around his waist and pulls it on, ignoring Dean's snort of amusement.

Dinner is over too quickly for Sam's liking. He picks at his burger, still too off-balance from the heat to have much of an appetite, but he drinks more Mountain Dew than is probably legal and tries not to watch Dean eat. It's a physical wrench to leave the frigid atmosphere of the diner; the air outside feels even more like a swamp in comparison, and Sam shivers at the change. By the time they get back to the motel, the diner's air-con is a distant memory and Sam is back to sweating through his shirt.

The nightly teasing thunderstorm begins as they get back, jagged fingers of lightning breaking up the sky, putting the taste of ozone in the air. There's no breeze; everything is still, the world moving sluggishly, seeming to press in all around.

Sam lays out the ingredients for the gris-gris bags and starts making them up while Dean cleans and loads their sawed-offs with rock salt. It doesn't take long; soon Sam has twelve of the bags ready to go and another four spare, and Dean exchanges Sam's shotgun for half.

Darkness is falling as they leave the room. It's an oppressive evening, the air tasting thicker by the minute. Sam tries to draw a deep breath and can't; he finds himself choking for a split second and nearly drops his gun. Dean leans over and wraps an arm around his waist, jerking hard, forcing him to exhale and cough.

"Don't faint on me yet, little brother," he says with a mocking grin, but his eyes are shadowed with concern.

"I'm good," Sam gasps. "I'm fine, let's go." He mops his streaming face with his t-shirt and prays for this to be over quickly.

Dean gets them to the house in under ten minutes and parks around the block. They meander slowly up the street, just two guys out for an evening stroll for the benefit of anyone watching. Then they're sidling along the conveniently tall hedge on the neighbouring property, and Sam is on his knees picking the lock on the back door, trying to ignore Dean's _entire lower body_ pressing up against his back, and they're in.

"You go upstairs, I'll go down," Dean suggests. "We'll get it done faster that way."

"Whatever." Sam doesn't argue; he just heads for the stairs, eager to be done.

It's pretty anticlimactic. The poltergeist doesn't show, not so much as a cold spot or a drop of blood on the wall. Sam gets all of his gris-gris bags planted and heads back downstairs to look for Dean.

Dean is in the kitchen, staring gleefully at a river of blood pouring into the sink. There's no plug, but the sink starts filling up anyway, overflowing the counter and creeping slowly over the floor toward them. Sam huffs in exasperation and takes the last bag from Dean's hands, knocking a hole in the drywall in the northeast corner of the room.

"Honestly, you're like a child sometimes," he says once the house is fully cleansed, and the EMF meter tells them the spirit is gone.

"It was cool," Dean protests. "I was waiting to see if it'd go up the wall next. Down is easy. Up is hard."

"I wouldn't say that, exactly," Sam mutters.

Now that the job is done, the other _pressing concerns_ of the day are starting to make themselves known again, and both 'up' and 'hard' are proving pretty damn easy for him.

Dean looks him over, a slow, heated glance from head to foot, lingering on Sam's crotch on the return journey. Dean licks his lips and smiles, and Sam draws in a careful breath, his heart starting to pound.

"Time to go?" Dean asks, moving closer, eyes never leaving Sam.

"Yes. Definitely," Sam manages, and then Dean's right there in front of him and his eyes are on Sam's mouth. The air between them is so charged Sam actually feels a little lightheaded.

Sam spins around on his heel and marches blindly for the door. He can feel Dean shadowing him, his breath on Sam's neck, can almost feel the extra heat from his body. Sam's sweating now for a wholly different reason.

He gets the door open and stumbles outside, pulling up short. Things have changed out here.

The wind has kicked up out of nowhere, trees bending and swaying drunkenly, leaves rattling and whining. The temperature has dropped about twenty degrees, maybe more; it's almost cool now, with the breeze strengthening by the minute. The banked-up mass of clouds has spread, blanketing the sky, hanging low and rumbling ominously.

Dean comes out and stands beside him, staring up at the clouds.

"Think we'll make it back--" he begins, and is interrupted by an almighty _crack_ of thunder that leaves Sam's ears ringing.

And then, oh God, _rain_. Warm, sweet rain to start with, a near-solid sheet of it coming down and soaking them to the skin in under a minute. Dean laughs into the sky and takes off running; Sam waits a beat, just watching him, and then chases after, the heat curling in his gut now a delicious counterpoint to the wildness outside. They race hellbent down the street, Sam edging just a fraction in front, heading full tilt toward the Impala and colliding with it and each other in a flurry of limbs.

"Keys, keys, keys," Sam demands, already at the passenger door, teeth chattering as the rain grows colder. "Come on, I'm fucking freezing out here."

"Never happy, are you?" Dean grins at him across the car, teeth sharp and white, eyes raking over Sam with an almost physical impact. "Too hot, too cold--what's next, Sam? Too much fucking rain?"

"Too much fucking _talking_ ," Sam shouts. He flicks his sopping hair out of his eyes and glares at Dean. "Find the fucking keys already or I'll find them myself."

Dean holds out his hands in a come-on kind of way, a cocky grin lighting his face.

"Come and get 'em," he taunts, but Sam's already moving.

The rain is slacking off some, but it's still a pretty heavy downpour. Both of them are wet through, clothes clinging and hanging, already starting to chafe. Sam circles the hood of the car, stripping off his shirts as he goes. He sees Dean's eyes go wide, and shrugs.

"Already wet," he says. "Besides, it feels amazing."

Sam stops in front of Dean and tips his head back, arms spread wide. The rain hammers down on his bare skin, tiny needles of sensation, washing away the sweat and fatigue and irritation of the past week. Sam opens his mouth and tries to lick the rain out of the air, swallow it, and that's when he hears Dean groan.

"Fucking _hell_ , Sam," Dean mutters, and then Dean is grabbing him and spinning him around, shoving him back against the car and planting a hand on his chest to keep him there. Sam opens his eyes and sees Dean only an inch away, closer, his hand burning like fire on Sam's skin.

"Fucking tease," Dean breathes, and Sam grins.

Then Dean's tongue is in his mouth and Dean's hands are in his hair, and Sam's caught between hard metal and hard flesh with the heavens opening above, and there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

Sam rucks up the back of Dean's shirt, seeking skin; when he finds it he keeps going, running his hands up Dean's back and taking his clothes along. Dean stops kissing him for exactly two seconds to get the shirts off; then he's nipping at Sam's jaw and neck, and Sam's scratching his nails down Dean's back, making Dean hiss and arch and bite the point of Sam's shoulder in revenge.

They shouldn't be doing this out in the open, but Sam can't bring himself to stop. It's after dark and pouring with rain, and they haven't seen a single person on the street. Anyone watching from inside a house would have a hard time seeing anything at all through the downpour. Sam thinks, _to hell with it_ , and tugs Dean closer between his thighs, reaching for his belt.

"Sam, what the hell," Dean's saying, pulling back, but Sam just grins at him and steals another kiss, sinking to his knees. The ground is cold, hard packed earth beside the blacktop that's fast turning to mud, soaking into his jeans. Sam fights with Dean's fly, growling when the buttons stick, yanking at them fruitlessly.

"Hey, go easy," Dean chokes, half-laughing, half-panicked; Sam makes a frustrated noise and leans in, breathing deep of Dean's all-day sweat, the sharp rising scent of his desire, mixed with the clean tang of rain. Sam puts his mouth on Dean's cock through denim, sucks hard, and Dean moans and jerks into his mouth.

"Here, wait, Jesus," and Dean's pushing him back, only far enough to shove his penknife between them, angled at the first button. The swollen material bursts apart as the cotton thread is cut, and Sam all but rips the knife from Dean's grip and attacks the rest of them.

"Jesus," Dean says again, faintly; Sam looks up and sees Dean staring at him with something like awe and a little fear, and a whole lot of burning want. He surges up to kiss Dean hard, tongues twisting furiously, slipping his hand into Dean's blessedly open fly.

Dean is scorching hot, branding his palm, the weight of him heavy and exciting. Sam bites Dean's lip and slides back to his knees, mouth already watering. He braces back against the Impala, pulls Dean close, and takes him down in one swallow.

Dean chokes on a sound that might have been Sam's name; it's hard to hear over the noise of the rain. Sam doesn't care. He's finally where he's wanted to be all day. Dean is curling over him, hands clenched into fists on the roof of the car, hips making aborted thrusts into Sam's mouth on every pull.

Sam works him quick and hard, rubbing his tongue along the underside of Dean's cock, sucking on the head, one hand playing with Dean's balls, rubbing and pulling there, too. It's only a few minutes before Dean is gasping and shuddering and shooting into Sam's throat, bitter and welcome, the ending of a successful day.

Sam sits back and wipes his mouth, letting rainwater pour down his face. He's breathless, and rock hard, and he's so hot it feels like the rain should be sizzling on his skin. He feels amazing.

Dean looks absolutely wrecked. He nearly staggers to his knees, only barely keeping his feet. His jeans gape ridiculously, boxer briefs bunched up under his softening cock. There are goosebumps all over his pale, firm skin.

Sam wants the chill of Dean's naked wet body all over him. They need a bed. Now.

"Motel," he demands in a hoarse voice. "Right now."

"Yeah," Dean says dazedly. "Yeah--keys, right, fucking keys, Jesus, Sam," and he's fumbling in his pockets and the keys fall out, landing on the ground next to Sam. He thrusts them upward; Dean grabs his wrist, pulls him to his feet and kisses him, stealing the breath Sam just gained back.

"You drive," Dean tells him. "My fucking legs don't work. Fucker."

"That was the general idea," Sam says, and leadfoots it back to the motel.

END


End file.
